


one more or one less, nobody's worried

by sinistercacophony



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Aaron is a little bit horny, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bipolar Aaron Minyard, Bipolar Andrew Minyard, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Medication, More content warnings Inside, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, as a treat, yet another fic about a minyard trynna fuck and failing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27614219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistercacophony/pseuds/sinistercacophony
Summary: Aaron is used to spending his Saturday mornings staring down into the hypnotizing white void of a toilet bowl. His head is full of nails, and they ache every time he moves wrong, a pain tied directly to the empty clench of nausea in his gut.He should probably stop doing this to himself.He’s not going to anytime soon. But he should.
Relationships: Aaron Minyard & Andrew Minyard, Katelyn/Aaron Minyard
Comments: 25
Kudos: 117





	one more or one less, nobody's worried

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! trigger warnings are gonna be at the end, i don't want to spoil parts of the fic but if you're concerned about anything in the tags above, or anything relating to violence/ drake, please check them out first 
> 
> i don't have anything clever to say about this one rn actually its 12:30 at night and i have a physics test to go fail tomorrow whee 
> 
> title is from [two birds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bb3_oDWiD_w) by regina spektor. it is a song about the twinyards. listen to it and weep :)

Aaron is used to spending his Saturday mornings staring down into the hypnotizing white void of a toilet bowl. His head is full of nails, and they ache every time he moves wrong, a pain tied directly to the empty clench of nausea in his gut.

He should probably stop doing this to himself.

He’s not going to anytime soon. But he should.

He’s interrupted from his catatonic misery by a knock on the door. It’s the two sharp raps that Andrew is fond of. Nicky yells through the door, Kevin bangs on it, Neil just waits.

Instead of getting up Aaron just lets out a groan and hopes Andrew goes away. There’s a long moment of silence, and then Andrew knocks again. Goddamnit. Aaron blindly reaches up and grabs onto the counter in order to haul himself to his feet. Once he gets vertical, he finds himself swaying dangerously and has to lean heavily into the countertop where his hand is resting. He doesn’t fall over. Stunning. By the time he has the toilet flushed and his mouth is cursorily rinsed with water, Andrew has knocked another time. This is his long game. He doesn’t bang and he doesn’t yell he just keeps fucking knocking until Aaron gets off his ass and opens the door.

When Aaron does finally yank open the door to the bathroom, Andrew is standing there, hand raised like he was about to knock again. He’s wearing a long sleeved sweatshirt and sweatpants, and Aaron can see the glaring red marks patterned down his neck. Gross. Aaron has trouble not going to a blind rage every time he thinks about his brother’s sex life and this morning is no different. Aaron does his best to ignore the roil of emotions in his gut at Andrew’s impassive face and catastrophic bedhead and shoves past Andrew, down the hall and back into his bedroom.

The cool light filtering in through the blinds allows the aching in his head to dull slightly, and he sits heavily on his bed as he combs through the sheets looking for where his fucking phone ended up. When he finally finds it he surveys the damage.

_Yesterday at 11:19 PM_

_babeeee_  
_ur so_  
_pretyie_  
_i like ur_

_aaw, that’s sweet_

  
_boobs_

  
_okay less sweet_

  
_oh_  
_im sorry_  
_sory_

_  
hey no baby it’s alright i was just teasing_

_  
o_

_  
you can tell me you like my boobs anytime_

_  
oh  
okyy i will  
do t ha t_

_  
are you drinking water sweetheart??_

_  
umm  
no_

_  
can you do that for me please?_

_  
uh ye i ca n  
ask rolan  
brg_

_  
okay text me when you get home safe alright?_

_Today at 1:47 AM_

_katiie  
im home  
in bed now  
nikye gave me watr  
i  
miss you_

_  
i’m glad you got some water  
i miss you too  
we’ll see each other on sunday ~_

_  
yeah  
evieryting is spirnging_

_  
try to go to sleep baby_

_  
ok  
i love you_

_  
i love you too_

As far as it goes it’s probably some of his less embarrassing drunken texting but he still feels a hot spike of humiliation at the words lighting up on the tiny screen. He’d seen Katelyn last night before they’d driven to Columbia. It was stupid to miss her. Her gentle reminders to drink water, to stay safe, made guilt and embarrassment and an odd kind of pleased disgruntlement settle low in the pit of his stomach. She was good. She liked him. Aaron has to remind himself of that sometimes.

_Today at 9:14 AM_

_My head hurts._

_  
ooh no poor darling  
its not like you did it to yourself or anything_

_  
Shut up.  
You could have some sympathy._

_  
i was very sympathetic last night. now i get to lecture you_

Ouch. That one hurts more than it should.

_Whatever._

Aaron has been ignoring Katelyn’s gentle prodding at his drinking problem for almost the entirety of their relationship, and he sure as shit isn’t changing that now.

_:(_

Fuck.

_Sorry.  
I’m fine._

_  
i don’t want you to apologize to me_

Aaron doesn’t know what to say to that.

_I don’t know what else to do._

_  
do something for yourself?  
stop going on self destructive outings with people who don’t care about you?  
i’m not going to give you an ultimatum again  
i want you to get better because you want to_

_  
Nicky cares about me._

Probably. Maybe. Signs point to yes.

_not the point._

Aaron resists the urge to message back ‘Whatever.’ again and settles for:

_We can talk later._

He heaves himself out of bed and goes downstairs to face the music. Andrew is sitting on the counter staring flatly into the middle distance, a cup of coffee held in one hand and the other clasped around his own ankle. At least he doesn’t have shoes on this time. Kevin is slumped over the kitchen table, passed out, from what Aaron can tell. Nicky and Neil are nowhere to be seen. Aaron grabs a cup of coffee and checks the fridge to see if they have any half and half that isn’t expired. They don’t. Whatever. He’ll just drink it black. He wonders what Andrew did. Aaron hasn’t seen Andrew drink a cup of coffee that wasn’t more cream and sugar than it was coffee probably ever. As he sits down at the table he eyes Andrew’s cup and doesn’t ask.

The kitchen is silent. It’s not awkward, because the kitchen is always silent in the mornings unless Nicky is there. Aaron can only assume he’s gone out for food. It’s a toss up as to whether Neil is with him or out fucking running somewhere.

Aaron drinks his coffee and tries not to drown in his misery.

He needs to stop this. He needs to stop coming here on the weekends and drinking himself fucking stupid so he can just forget how miserable he is for a couple goddamn hours because every time he wakes up he feels worse and Katelyn is disappointed in him and his goddamn brother still doesn’t give one single shit about anything.

Whatever.

—

Hanging out with Katelyn in her dorm is the only time Aaron doesn’t feel like the world is crumbling around him.

Her stupid little Christmas lights that she keeps up all year and the dumb fluffy pillows she has on her bed that are stupidly comfortable to collapse into, the way the air smells like cinnamon and vanilla and _Katelyn._ All of it settles something in Aaron, something that tears itself loose and hangs out of his chest the rest of the time.

Of course it would be better without her stupid fucking roommate.

Cindi is nice. She’s— fine, for the most part. She doesn’t bitch if Katelyn lets Aaron stay the night and she’ll leave them alone if they give her enough warning. It’s still her dorm too though, and that means they can’t kick her out randomly. Aaron had been tired and frustrated after practice and hadn’t wanted to go back to face Matt and Nicky being their obnoxiously cheerful selves in the common room, hadn’t wanted to isolate himself in his bunk and stew.

Instead he’s facedown on Katelyns twin bed, head buried in her pillows, inhaling the scent of her shampoo while Cindi natters on and on about some fucking reality show she watched the other day, because coming over had been an impulse and apparently she had some stupid project to do so she couldn’t go out which would have been fine except she wasn’t _doing_ her project she was just fucking _talking._

Katelyn is responding in all the right places but Aaron can hear in her voice that she’s not all that interested. One of her hands is resting on the small of his back, right under his shirt. It’s warm, and occasionally she’ll rub idly at his skin, like she’s petting him.

It’s turning him on a little bit, which would be fine except for _fucking Cindi._

The aggression Aaron is feeling towards her right now is probably too much, too unreasonable, and Katelyn would be pissed at him if he snapped at her roommate so he just takes a deep breath and tries to relax, tries to just let his mind fucking empty of all of his awful boring circular thoughts and just fucking— exist.

Katelyn’s hand feels so good on him. He stifles the part of him that wants to grind into the mattress. Embarrassing. Aaron starts conjugating german verbs in his head. Begone boner. Now is not the time.

Eventually the rising and falling of the girl’s voices puts him into a kind of trance. He only realizes he’s nearly asleep when his eyes flicker open at the soft touch of a hand in his hair. The room is dark now, only the lamp from Katelyns desk illuminating the room.

“Hey baby, I didn’t mean to bore you to sleep,” her voice is soft but assured and the hand in his hair slides down to cup his cheek.

“Mhm, ‘ts fine,” he manages, feeling drowsy and mildly disoriented in the dark.

“Do you wanna sleep here or do you need to go back to your room?”

He should probably go back to the room. He needs to be up early for fucking practice tomorrow and if he’s late to the parking lot Andrew will leave without him and he’ll have to walk. He’ll need to wake up even earlier to avoid that.

“Here,” he mutters before burying his face back into the pillows.

Katelyn lets out a laugh, “Well you’re not sleeping next to me fully dressed, so maybe fix that first.”

Ugh. Aaron ignores her for a moment, but feels the creeping of her fingers on his ribs and he knows she’ll dig in if he keeps her waiting too long.

It doesn’t take him that long to shuck off his jeans. He has a pair of sweatpants somewhere around here but he doesn’t bother looking for them, his t-shirt and boxers should be good enough. He burrows back into the bed, face down in the pillows again. He feels the weight on the bed shift as Katelyn lies down beside him. He’s momentarily and shamefully grateful that he’s small enough that sleeping in a twin bed with her isn’t particularly difficult. She always sleeps on her side, he knows, and this time she lies down facing him, slinging one leg over his hip and settling her arm around his waist. He can feel the swell of her breasts pressed warm into his shoulder, the soft puffs of her breaths on his neck.

He pushes down a shiver. He’s tired, he needs to sleep, Katelyn’s roommate is right fucking there.

Katelyn is rubbing at his hip, right at the edge of where it’s pressed into the mattress. He just barely makes a sound of protest, “Kate.”

She sounds innocent as she mumbles sleepily back at him, “What?”

He just barely doesn’t groan at her, “You know.”

There’s laughter in her voice, “Do I?”

He lets out a huff. It’s not quite as annoyed as he wants it to be, “Tomorrow.” It’s a question and a promise at the same time.

She laughs softly as she acquiesces, moving her hand up from his hip so it’s draped much more safely across his shoulders, “Yeah, alright baby, tomorrow.”

He falls asleep to the gentle scrape of her nails on his neck and the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest against him. He’ll be annoyed in the morning, when he has to scramble back to the dorm to get changed for practice, when he has to run down to the parking lot and just barely makes it to the Maserati before Andrew peels out of the parking lot. When Matt makes some stupid congratulatory joke about getting laid and Andrew’s face goes just impassive enough that Aaron can see the raw anger seething just under the surface.

But for now, it’s okay. Nothing is wrong. He’s going to be fine.

—

This is maybe the least fine Aaron has ever been.

Usually his alcohol tolerance is good enough that he doesn’t get sick while drunk, just after, in the mornings. Well. Getting sick after is newish, actually. Before last year he’d only gotten drunk enough to make dancing feel more natural, turn off some of the anxiety constantly thrumming through his brain. But now, after—

After _that._

Alcohol is oblivion and he craves it more than he craves anything else. Ever since last winter he’s been getting trashed enough to forget his own name, trashed enough that he spends more time vomiting at eight AM than he does studying for his classes. Oh wait— he’s not thinking about that either never mind.

He’s not thinking about much of anything right now, he’s too focused on puking up his guts in the back alley of Eden’s, distantly aware that someone is rubbing his back and making concerned noises.

It’s really dark. There are bright lights and everything is spinning and— oh it’s Nicky and he’s saying something.

“—re you okay? You’ve never gotten sick like this before. Aaron. Aaron can you look at me? Are you dying? Please tell me if you are.”

Aaron just barely gets out, “‘M not dying,” before he’s puking again. Oh. His head is very fuzzy. Everything is very fuzzy. He’s walking now. They’re going somewhere? To the car. He’s looking in the mirror. Wait no that’s Andrew. His twin. His brother who looks like him. How fucking weird is that? That you can be existing on the planet for thirteen years and then find out one day there’s someone out there who looks exactly like you. Who’s stolen your face, stolen your life, stolen your mother and your cousin and everything else until you’re left with nothing nothing everything is falling through your fingers like sand but it’s not sand it’s red red red because there’s blood on your hands because he was trying to steal your brother from _you_ and you couldn’t fucking let him and —

There are fingers in front of Aaron’s face. Andrew’s fingers. He’s snapping. His face is just loose enough that he looks impatient.

“Are you going to vomit in my car?”

Oh. Hmm. Aaron pushes down the instinctive ‘no.’ Andrew doesn’t like lying. His stomach hurts and he can’t feel his limbs and the alcohol clearly didn’t work because all he can think of is red red red and the scent of vomit and blood spatter on his face. Screaming and terror and wrath, deep and unending, tangled up like thorns inside him, tearing him apart and leaving him shattered and —

“Maybe. I might. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Andrew lets out a vague scoff and Aaron is so distracted by the emotiveness of the sound that it takes him a moment to realize that Andrew is gone. Maybe they left without Aaron. Maybe they’ve just abandoned him here and he’s going to rot in this parking lot alone and unloved just like he always is. Aaron Minyard is a stray dog that exists for no other reason than to get kicked.

Aaron blinks and he’s sitting on the ground. He’s leaning on something. The car? The Maserati. There’s a door open to his right and he can see Josten’s jeans and ratty sneakers poking out. The pavement under his hands is gritty and uncomfortable. It stings his palms, brings him back into his body. Everything is spinning.

He blinks again and he’s being hauled up by the back of his jacket and shoved into the car. There’s something being nudged into his hands. Oh. It’s a trash can. One of the little ones they have under the bartop at Eden’s. Aaron looks up just in time to see Andrew sliding into the passenger seat. Aaron leans forward a bit and realizes his seatbelt is on. Oh. Weird.

The drive doesn’t take long. Everything is blurry and he hurts and woah he’s puking again gross and now they’re getting out of the car and Nicky is thrusting a glass of water into his hands except Aaron doesn’t want to drink it he wants his phone he needs to talk to someone he needs to call—

“Aaron baby? Is everything okay?”

No. No he’s not okay he hurts he hurts so much he feels so bad he’s so tired of feeling like this and he doesn’t know how to make it _stop—_

“Hey, shhh, sweetheart, it’s okay, can you breathe for me? I need you to breathe Aaron.”

He doesn’t know how to breathe. He’s distantly aware of his breath catching heavily in his throat but all he can think of is drowning and falling and shattering into pieces and the sick crunch of a racket into a man’s skull and he _deserved_ it and Aaron doesn’t regret it a single bit he’d go back and do it again a thousand times, a million times, as many times as it took but it also broke him somewhere that he’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to fix and he can’t _breathe_ everything is so much and he distantly realizes he’s on the phone with Katelyn, curled up under his comforter the door to his room firmly shut, moonlight filtering in through the window and he’s sobbing like the world is ending, can’t seem to get it to stop and it hurts, he hurts so fucking much—

—

Aaron wakes up at not quite dawn to the violent rebellion of his stomach. He just barely makes it out of bed, grabbing the convenient trash can that had been set on his nightstand. How nice that people are thinking of him. His head hurts so bad, there are lights flashing behind his eyes and he feels that indistinct unsettled feeling that indicates he might still be a little drunk, actually.

The glaring red light of his alarm clock drives spikes into his mind. 6:37 AM, it tells him, the _fuck you_ is implied.

He ends up breathing heavily over the toilet again, until the seasick toss of his stomach is less actively rebelling. He falls asleep slumped against the wall, his mouth still sour and his stomach still roiling.

_Tap, tap._

Andrew again. Aaron’s eyesight is blurry as he blinks back into the fluorescent light of the bathroom. Fuck. Aaron’s life really is just a miserable weekly cycle, huh.

When he opens the door it’s the same as last week, right down to the hickeys crawling up Andrew’s neck. What is new is the single eyebrow Andrew raises at him.

“You know you can’t keep this up.”

Fuck him. Fuck his stupid fucking opinion. “Like you actually give a shit,” Aaron mutters while shouldering past him.

He just barely catches it before he’s in his room and slamming the door but for just a moment he swears Andrew says under his breath, “I do, actually.”

Wishful thinking on Aaron’s part, probably. Whatever. That’s all Aaron’s life is these days. Whatever.

His phone is a venomous snake, just barely visible where it’s dropped on the floor halfway under the bed.

He has vague memories of sobbing embarrassingly at Katelyn last night. God fucking damnit.

He picks it up.

_Today at 1:18 PM_

_i wanna die_

  
_aaron are you okay??_

  
_dnt feel good_  
_katelykn_  
_im so sad_  
_all the time_  
_i aalwys feels sofuckign bad_  
_i do’t konw how to make it sotp_

  
_shit baby can you call me?_  
_please??_

_Call lasting 34m14s_

_aaron honey when you see this tomorrow can you call me again?_  
_i just wanna make sure you’re okay_

_Today at 11:13 AM_

_Awake._  
_Sorry._  
_Fuck._  
_Yeah we can call give me like 10._

He uses those ten minutes to sit there with his head in his hands, berating himself for being such a needy fucking asshole. Fucking keeping Katelyn up till 2AM fucking crying at her like a pussy. No wonder she’s mad. He’s mad at himself.

The dial tone feels like a death toll.

“Aaron baby, you’re awake.”

He swallows hard, feeling the click in his throat. When he speaks his voice comes out raw and creaky, “Yeah. I am.” He falls silent again. He doesn’t know what else to say. He waits for the lecture. Waits for her to start screaming about how much of an asshole he his, how stupid he is for letting it get this bad, how he should stop being such a child, stop being upset, he’s too old for this, too old to be crying about his _feelings_ to his girlfriend.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Oh. Her voice is soft and even, concerned but not angry. It puts him off guard enough that he responds honestly, “Uh, not really.”

There’s a soft sigh through the tinny speaker and a long pause before she says, “You’re not okay, Aaron.”

His head is blank. She’s not mad at him, she sounds—

She sounds sad.

“Yeah.” It’s a hard thing to say, a hard thing to acknowledge out loud.

She takes a deep breath then, Aaron can hear her bracing herself for whatever she’s going to say next.

“Well? What are we going to do about it?”

We. Not just him. She’s not breaking up with him, he distantly realizes.

“Do we have to do anything?” The question sounds hollow. He knows what her answer will be, yes of course. Maybe she’ll give him another ultimatum like she did with Andrew. Tell him to suck it up and clean up his act.

“No. Not if you don’t want to. But I think you should.”

Oh. Okay.

“I already talk to Dobson.” This is a generous stretch of what he actually does, which is make passive aggressive snipes at Andrew while Andrew claws back with vicious comments. Dobson is only nominally in the room, making sure neither of them snaps and strangles the other.

You know. Therapy.

“You know that’s not true.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“Have you tried going to individual therapy?”

“Not beyond the mandatory ones. Plus, I don’t want to talk about shit with Dobson, she already knows too fucking much about Andrew.”

Katelyn makes a considering sound, the one Aaron knows is always accompanied by her chewing on her lower lip.

“Have you asked Dobson about finding someone else on campus to work with?”

“No.” He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to talk to anybody about this shit.

“I think you should.”

“I know what you think.”

She doesn’t seem to have a response to that. The silence deafens him, makes him feel small and weak, something easy to crush.

There’s another soft sigh, “Can you spend next weekend with me, at least? We can do something nice together.”

Next weekend. Give up basically the only time he spends with Andrew to spend with his girlfriend instead. Guilt twists like a snake in his gut.

“Yeah. That sounds nice. I guess.” He knows he sounds miserable when he says it.

He could come out with his family on the weekend and just not drink, he knows. But it’s not that easy. It’s not even the alcohol necessarily, he doesn’t think. Just the temptation to fucking forget himself. He doesn’t feel the need to drink during the week. Instead he just lies in bed, idly scrolling myspace on the shitty beat up laptop he got second hand and pointedly not doing his assignments. He’s failing two classes. He doesn’t know how to fucking _do this._ Soon they’re going to notify Coach and he could get suspended for the rest of the season.

When he failed classes as a kid it was always so easy to hide it from Mom. All he had to do was sneak out to the mailbox and dump the little envelope the school always sent out in the trash on his way back to the house. One time he’d forgotten, though, or Mom had gotten home earlier than usual and grabbed it first, and she’d screamed at him about how he was such a useless fucking child, so fucking stupid. How he was gonna mooch off her forever, steal from her for the rest of her fucking life. How she should have left him in a fucking dumpster like the trash he is.

When he’d first heard about Andrew he’d thought, _Maybe she gave up the wrong one after all, maybe Andrew is the one she wanted. Maybe he’ll be skinnier and smarter and just_ better _than me._ Aaron was a broken toy, how nice to find a copy out in the world somewhere, pristine in its factory packaging.

Of course that was all wrong. Andrew was just as destroyed as Aaron was, in the end.

Or maybe not. Andrew with his perfect fucking memory, and his prodigal exy skills. Andrew with his ability to intimidate anyone he wanted (not quite) and his apathy and his casual ownership. And Aaron had followed him gladly, had folded effortlessly at the weight of his demands, his deals. Aaron does not know how to be a person on his own.

Doesn’t know what to do without Mom’s long fingernails snagging uncomfortably in his hair as she murmured to him, told him she’d love him forever, because no one else would. How the only way he’d ever be able to exist is if he made her happy. _Because that’s what children are meant for Aaron. Don’t you see? That’s the only reason I’m so upset sometimes, because I love you, because I want you to be better. Do you understand?_ And she’d press sticky lipstick kisses along his forehead and give him one of her xanax and he’d fall asleep in her arms, trapped and alone and uncomfortable.

Andrew, by comparison, kept him on a much longer leash. There was no way he hadn’t known about Katelyn. They’d been sort of dating for nearly a year before Andrew even bothered to address her. It was with a kind of resigned annoyance that Andrew let Aaron pull pull pull to the edges of his enclosure before yanking him back in.

Part of Aaron doesn’t want to admit that Andrew being less invested in their relationship is probably good for the both of them, in the long run.

He doesn’t know how to exist without the leash.

He distantly realizes that he’s still on the phone with Katelyn, the both of them breathing softly, trying not to spook the other.

“Katelyn,” he just wants to say her name. Wants to feel it in his mouth, soft and without barbs. Katelyn has no hooks in him, all she has is a hand held out, while he treads water.

Aaron should really take the hand, but all he knows how to do is drown.

—

Katelyn smells so good. When Aaron pushes his nose into the curve of her throat he can inhale spices and vanilla and maybe just a little sweat, feel the beating of her pulse under his tongue, the little hitches of breath and cut off whines he gets when he palms her breasts through her shirt. He gets a little gaspy sigh of his name when he bites down on the junction of her neck.

“Aaron, ah, are you a f-fucking vampire or something. Jeez,” and the stuttering rasp of her voice makes Aaron’s head fuzzy, makes heat coil low in his belly.

Aaron woke up this morning with the image of a racket crushing a man’s skull playing over and over in his head but he’s trying very fucking hard not to think of that right now, not with Katelyn spread across his lap, giggling and sighing as he works his way towards taking her apart.

He doesn’t say anything to her comment, just grunts and pushes one hands up the back of her shirt, aiming for the clasp of her bra, it takes a possibly embarrassing amount of time to get it undone one handed, but he distracts her from that by kissing her again, running his tongue along her bottom lip, savouring the slightly bitter flavor of her lipgloss and the warmth of her mouth on his. When he finally separates the clasp, he receives a pleased hum as Katelyn pulls back and crosses her arms to remove both her shirt and her now loose bra in one go. It puts her breasts right at eye level, and Aaron resents his height for many reasons but this is not one of them.

He puts his mouth right on one of her nipples and revels in the squeaky gasp it wrings out of her, how he can feel it harden under his tongue, how he can feel her arch into him as he wraps both of his hands around her waist.

He closes his eyes for a moment and sees red red red, brain matter spattered across the wall and—

Fuck. Aaron opens his eyes, tries to refocus, pulls back and looks up into Katelyn’s warm brown eyes, pretends that the hitching in his breath and the rapid beating of his heart is arousal, nevermind that he’s not even hard. Fucking embarassing. Can’t even get it up to fuck his girlfriend because he can’t stop remembering something he doesn’t even regret.

Katelyn settles herself more firmly in his lap, and Aaron can tell by the confused notch in her forehead that she’s noticed. Fuck. Goddamnit. He had skipped going out to Eden’s for this, and Katelyn’s roommate was only going to be out until Sunday morning so they only had tonight so he has to fucking get it together, goddamnit.

And now there’s shame and embarrassment building in his chest, knotting up and down his throat and he’s choking on it, his breath coming faster and faster and when he squeezes his eyes shut in panic all his can see over and over again is his brother getting— can see Drake’s savage smile, can see the dazed amusement in Andrew’s eyes as he laughs and laughs and laughs while Aaron stands there stunned and so fucking useless with a man’s brain matter spattered across his shirt, and Aaron isn’t even hurt, hasn’t even been touched but he’s bleeding inside, choking on it, his guts twisting in on themselves like snakes as he stands there empty empty empty laughter bleeding into the cavernous space that has freshly opened beneath his ribs, cracking them out one by one until he is nothing but jagged spikes of flesh and bone and blood blood blood oozing out into the world, full of rot and anger, a failure a loser god he’s so fucking stupid, so fucking stupid to think that brotherhood was anything but pain, that this was enough, that _he_ could be enough, for Andrew, for Katelyn, for anyone. He’s a fucking waste of space is what he is. Mom knew, that’s what she always told him, that he was a useless fucking druggie and she’d take care of him, she’d make sure he was okay, and then Andrew _killed_ her and Aaron couldn’t even have the decency to feel grateful for it and he still feels it, feels that grief buried deep down. She doesn’t deserve his grief, she doesn’t deserve his love, his affection, but it’s there, twisted deep inside of him because he is an ungrateful brother and an ungrateful child both and and and—

He comes back to himself, breath still hitching, skin still crawling off of his bones. There are hot tears running down his cheeks, rolling heavily along his throat. It’s an odd sensation. He hasn’t cried sober since he was eleven. Katelyn is murmuring to him, he notices. She has her shirt back on but she’s plastered to his side, one hand gripped in his, running her thumb gently along his palm as she mutters soft endearments, nose pressing into his hair.

There’s something soft in his hands, Katelyn’s stuffed animal, he realizes. She usually has it on her dresser. It’s Eeyore, sad eyes and limp tail, fur soft and worn with the years. He’s squeezing it harder than he should be, sweaty palms probably getting it sticky and gross.

God it’s fucking embarassing, sitting here crying and gasping for breath, clutching a stuffed animal like a child. For some reason the thought makes his breath hitch again, speeds the beating of his heart once more. Katelyn notices, seems to realize he’s come back down a little because she says, “Hey Aaron, baby, I need you to breathe with me alright? Can you try to do that?”

He can’t speak, can’t say anything but he nods shakily and tries to match the steady, consistent breaths Katelyn is guiding him with. It’s not working particularly well, he’s still choking on gasps, unable to stop the tears, stop the adrenaline rushing through him. Little by little he manages to reign himself in, slow the rise and fall of his chest to something more manageable. The blood rushing through his veins still feels too fast, too loud, but the steady thumping of his heart eventually begins to gentle.

He’s immediately hit hard by a wave of complete and utter exhaustion. He finds himself leaning into Katelyn, clutching Eeyore to his chest, too tired to give a shit about acting like a man or whatever.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he rasps out. It’s the first thing he’s said in what feels like hours, days, years.

Katelyn lets out a very quiet sigh, “I know, baby.”

“I just want it to stop.”

Her breath hitches. Aaron thinks she might be crying too. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I’m sorry,” he means it, this time.

Aaron has spent so much of his life apologizing simply for existing, for taking up space, for daring to live imperfectly. He’s tired of being sorry for that.

Katelyn doesn’t want him to be sorry for that.

When they first started dating, it hadn’t been serious, really. Katelyn thought he was cute, thought he was just rough enough around the edges to be appealing. Later Aaron had learned that Katelyn had started dating him almost solely to piss off her parents, because apparently there’d been a boy in her hometown, a highschool sweetheart she’d broken up with just after graduation, and her parents still had expectations that she’d marry him, have dozens of little babies. Major in something like business or accounting and then go on to be a housewife.

She wants to be a doctor. She’s minoring in computer programming. She’s smarter than him, probably. He’d been angry when she’d told him, embarrassed at the feeling of being used, but now it was kind of funny actually. Aaron would meet her parents some day. He would probably still piss them off. He doesn’t even give a shit. That’s what Katelyn wants him for right? For him.

But this apology is different. It’s not because he doesn’t deserve her, not because he’s sorry she loves him.

He’s sorry that he’s putting all this on her, that he’s so afraid of being told he can never be better that he can’t even find the strength to try. That she’s patiently sat beside him time after time, breakdown after breakdown, and stayed. Stayed despite the arguments, despite the annoyance, despite the fact that he isn’t perfect and neither is she.

“I love you,” the words are unfamiliar, rolling off his tongue. He is afraid of them, afraid of the ways they’ve been used against him. His Mom, taking her love and using it to choke him. Is it possible to love someone, without wanting to swallow them whole? Katelyn makes him want to try.

She must hear it in his voice, because instead of refuting the apology she just says, “I love you too.”

They sit in silence. Aaron is almost nodding off again, when Katelyn murmurs, “Do you know what set it off?” _Was it something I did,_ she doesn’t say.

He lets out a short, choking laugh, “Bad day.” _Not you,_ he doesn’t say back.

“Bad week,” she adds softly.

It chokes in his throat.

“Bad fucking life,” he agrees.

—

The psychologist Dobson refers him to is a middle aged man, balding and shrewd. He watches Aaron over his glasses with a look that feels disapproving, and Aaron can’t tell whether he’s projecting that or not. Dobson hadn’t recommended him particularly highly, but he was the only other therapist on campus, and Aaron doesn’t have enough money to go somewhere else.

Over the course of thirty minutes Aaron has stuttered out about maybe half of the bullshit that’s been fucking with him this semester, and only vaguely alluded to any of the worse shit that prompted it. It just feels a little weird to sit down with a dude you just met and open with ‘Hey, I murdered someone!’ He’ll bring it up later, probably. Or maybe the dude already knows, maybe Dobson told him and he’s just not mentioning it to be polite.

The man, Harris, he’d introduced himself as (well, there’d been a doctor in front of that, but Aaron doesn’t care to use it) is currently jotting down notes onto his little pad. He pulls out a notepad from his desk and scribbles on it.

“From what you’ve told me, you currently have a lot of symptoms of depression and anxiety. I’m going to put you on a low dose of antidepressants to start with, and next week we can see how you feel, hmm.”

There’s a clench in Aarons gut. It feels dismissive. It feels useless. Some fucking pills aren’t going to fix jack shit. He thinks about Andrew, spending years flying high through no choice of his own. Aaron doesn’t know exactly what they’d given him. Andrew had never said, had always carefully peeled the little labels off the bottles before he handed them to anybody, had vindictively torn the stickers to shreds.

“Okay,” he says.

He takes the prescription to the pharmacy on his way out of the building and gets it filled. When he gets out of the building he tears open the package, pours the little white pills into his hand and stares at them.

Harris hadn’t even asked if he’d had problems with addiction. Aaron should have told him, should have brought it up instead of just silently taking the paper and walking out. He stares and stares and stares, doubt bubbling in his stomach. Eventually he pours them back into their little orange bottle and shoves it into his pocket.

They’re antidepressants. It’s not like he’s going to get high off of them.

—

Aaron may or may not be high off antidepressants.

It’s weird. He feels fucking great. He feels like nothing fucking matters, like he could eat the sun, like the world is amazing and everything is perfect.

He’s gotten all of his assignments done, late ones included. And yeah, maybe he’s barely slept over the course of the past week but he feels fine, he feels great actually, and it’s really fucking weird and there’s a part of him that’s kind of concerned but he ignores it because at least he’s not laying in fucking bed all day feeling sorry for himself so what the fuck ever right?

He’s telling this to Katelyn and he can see the notch between her brow that says she’s concerned but it’s hard to focus, hard to care about that because there’s a boiling in his gut and he hasn’t gotten laid in fucking weeks, not since that panic attack laid him out on his ass and she’s right there and her roommate is out so he takes the opportunity to pull her close, to press kisses firmly down her neck, nosing into her throat and inhaling.

“-ron, Aaron, hey, stop,” he hears it. He hears stop and he pulls back because he’s not playing that fucking game not with Katelyn not with anyone and if she really doesn’t want it he’ll go jack off in the shower or something to relieve the heat flashing through him.

“What? Sorry. We don’t have to,” he offers, feeling apologetic in a weird muffled way. There’s something about that thought that upsets him, a thread there he could follow but as soon as he lands on it, it flutters away again.

“Aaron, are you okay?,” and she sounds so concerned and abruptly Aaron switches from horny to irritated.

“Yeah I’m fucking fine,” he finds himself snapping out. The moment he says it he blinks rapidly back to himself. There was no pause between the thought and the reaction, just the flash of anger and the words pouring out.

Katelyn looks upset now, her mouth twisting in annoyance, “Okay whatever then. I guess that’s not my problem.”

And Aaron should comfort her, should tell her he’s fine that everythings cool but instead he feels a little like he’s vibrating and he can’t fucking think and—

Suddenly he has a flash, to Andrew, grinning and flighty, constantly fidgeting or tapping or chewing on something, nails, pens, hoodie strings. Always so quick to anger, always so quick to forget, irritation fading in the wind at the turn of a heel.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Shit. He’s saying that out loud, and Katelyn is staring at him, concern becoming more blatant because this has been building for weeks, ever since that shitty fucking therapist prescribed him those pills he didn’t even bother to question, just started taking because what was the worst that could happen.

Aaron doesn’t know much about drugs but he’s fairly certain antidepressants don’t usually induce mania.

Unless you have undiagnosed bipolar disorder.

Aaron had taken a psychology class as an elective in high school and only avoided failing it by the skin of his teeth. He only remembers bits and scraps, he’d been high most of the time, and despite vague ideas he wanted to be a doctor he still hadn’t had any motivation to try.

But when they’d talked about bipolar. Talked about rapid cycling and bouts of irritation and euphoria interspersed by complete and utter exhaustion.

He’d thought of mom, and how she’d spend weeks and weeks passed out on the couch, waking up to shove more pills down her throat, drown them down with alcohol, only to be there one day when he came home in a sparkling kitchen (only ever the kitchen, the rest of the house would remain dark, full of rotting takeout containers and empty alcohol bottles) smiling brightly, kissing him on the cheek and presenting him with some new gift, a video game or a toy he was too old for, a glint in her eye that could turn from joy to anger in the flash of a second.

He’d thought, _Hey maybe?,_ and then, _surely not,_ followed by, _you just want your life to be harder than it is._

He thinks about Andrew, the way he goes flat and dead eyed like a gutted fish, eyes empty empty empty just like Mom’s.

Aaron very distantly realizes he’s starting to have another panic attack, breathes coming fast in his throat once more followed by the rapid onset of fear fear fear.

It’s not the same, he thinks. He’s not behaving like Andrew had. He isn’t laughing up and down the halls, isn’t grinning maniacally at every passerby.

That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Some symptoms present differently. He knows this because— because he wants to be a doctor.

Katelyn is counting him through breaths again, and it’s working this time, catching him before he manages to fall into himself too deep to come out.

He lets out a gasp and says, “I have to talk to Andrew.”

He’s not sure how much of his panicked thought process actually made it out of his mouth but Katelyn just nods at him, eyes serious and concerned, “Yeah, I think you really fucking should.”

She means more than just about this, she means in general, about Aaron’s fucked up attachment issues and self destructive desire to find himself on a leash again and how maybe, just maybe, he’d like to try to be brothers, without all the rest, but every time he’s found himself across the couch from Andrew, Dobson like a referee between them, he’s clammed up, shut down inside himself, not wanting to be the one to show vulnerability, not wanting to risk being rejected.

This, though. This he really can’t avoid, huh.

He finds Andrew in his dorm, sitting on a desk, smoking a cigarette out of the open window. Neil is on the couch, watching an exy game and taking notes that look more like abstract doodles than anything else.

Andrew’s eyebrow raises and he states dryly, “Knocking exists.”

Aaron ignores him, barreling out, “I need to talk to you.”

There’s a long pause, and after a moment Andrew makes an expansive gesture and says, “Go on.”

Aaron glances at Neil. “Alone,” he manages to say, “Pl— uh, it’s important.”

Andrew’s eyes narrow at the almost use of his least favorite word but he must be satisfied that Aaron at least tried because he inclines his head just slightly and hops off the desk, walking towards the bedroom.

Aaron follows. Once the door is closed Andrew situates himself on the lower bunk, legs crossed and expression still flat.

There’s nowhere for Aaron to sit, unless he wants to sit next to Andrew, or climb up into Kevin or Neil’s bunks, which— no thank you, so he just plops himself onto the floor, running his palms over the ratty carpet.

There’s a moment of silence. Andrew certainly isn’t going to be the one to break it.

So Aaron does, in perhaps the worst way possible, by blurting out, “Are you bipolar?”

This actually manages to get Andrew’s eyes to widen slightly, shock coloring his expression before he visibly stifles it. Aaron can hear the anger underlying his voice when he responds, “On what planet is that any of your fucking business.” It doesn’t sound like a question. They never do.

Aaron answers anyway, “On the planet where that shitty doc Dobson said I could go to since I don’t wanna talk to her about shit prescribed me antidepressants and jackshit else, and now I feel like I could fight god.”

This gets another brief look of surprise to flit across Andrew’s face. Oh how the tables turn, and all that shit, it’s not often that Aaron has a one up on Andrew information wise.

Andrew’s eyes narrow and he leans forward off the bed, grasping Aaron’s face with a heavy hand and looking searchingly into his eyes, “You did not tell me that you were taking drugs again.”

Of fucking course that’s the first thing he thinks of. Aaron snaps out, “Well I didn’t think that was any of _your_ fucking business. I thought we were fucking done anyway. And anyway I’m not doing drugs it’s a fucking prescription.” Nevermind that half the drugs Mom fed him were prescription. He yanks his face out of Andrew’s firm grip.

There’s a twist of Andrew’s mouth that seems to betray some deeper emotion that Aaron can’t parse.

There’s another moment where neither of them speak. God they’re so fucking bad at this. Aaron finally gets the guts up to continue. “I think Mom was. Bipolar— I mean. She would behave really fucking weirdly, and I know you didn’t see it because you weren’t there that long but she’d like, get all weird and happy and nice and then get mad really fast and—” he cuts himself off, “Anyway, I know it runs in families and you never told us what drugs you were on when— and I was thinking maybe they were antidepressants like I’m on right now and that’s why you were so fucking— crazy and shit half the time because lets be honest it makes no fucking sense they’d want to keep you like that if anyone was paying any kind of fucking attention except maybe Dobson and I don’t know maybe she couldn’t do anything, you would know better than me and— anyway I know it runs in families and we’re twins so why wouldn’t we both have it and it just wasn’t— triggered for me or whatever until now because I’ve been stressed and I keep having— whatever. Shitty things happen. And— yeah,” he finishes lamely. He’s not entirely sure that made any sense, actually. He’s not used to talking this much, doesn’t usually find it necessary but right now it feels like he needs to shove as much information as possible into a single sentence.

Andrew is visibly frowning at him, the mere existence of the expression sparking anxiety inside Aaron. He appears to deliberate for a second before stating carefully, “Yes. Bee suspects that may be the case, but I have not had a manic episode since I was taken off the medication, so we are not sure.” He pauses for another moment and then adds, “That psychiatrist should be fired.”

Aaron kind of agrees. At the very least if Harris had thought to ask, Aaron would have known to tell him that he suspected the disorder ran in his family. Fuck. Aaron finds himself letting out a frustrated sigh, “Guess I’m gonna have to end up talking to Dobson about my fucking feelings anyway.”

Andrew is still frowning. Amazing, that this is what it takes to draw concern out of him. “I do not understand why you did not before.” Oh good his language is getting all weird and stilted again. Well. More than normal. That means he’s upset. Great.

“Cause I don’t wanna talk to _your_ fucking therapist about _my_ fucking problems, Andrew. We already share too goddamn much is it a fucking crime for me to not want to share all of my shitty fucking thoughts with a person more invested in you than me?”

Andrew hums, “Odd assumption.”

Irritation is bubbling up under Aaron’s skin, fast and bright, “I don’t fucking care if it’s true, if I can’t fucking trust her she can’t fucking do anything.”

Andrew inclines his head. Blinks at Aaron in contemplation, “You will stop taking the medication.”

Aaron bristles under the phrasing. He’s not a fucking dog. Andrew dropped the fucking leash, he doesn’t get to tug on it on a whim. “Yeah, I fucking know. It’s not like your shit, I should just be able to stop. Who fucking knows if that’ll make this whole deal stop now that it’s been kicked off though. Fuck!” There’s rage building in him. He hates how quickly it flares. Aaron is often easily irritated, but it’s low grade, not this odd seething anger that burns up inside, leaves him wanting to hit something.

Consternation flashes across Andrew’s face at the outburst. “You need to see someone.”

Aaron fucking knows. He just gestures in frustration, “With what fucking money Andrew? All that spare cash we have laying around that we definitely saved and didn’t spend on stupidly expensive fucking cars?”

Andrew slants his eyes towards Aaron in annoyance. “I will take care of it. Find someone.”

Andrew is such a cryptic fucking bastard and normally Aaron would push for more information but honestly right now he’s too out of his skin to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Fine. I’ll find someone. Fuck. God no wonder you were so fucking crazy all the time, I feel like if I don’t punch someone I’ll die.”

At this Andrew’s face actually twists into something like amusement and he states dryly, “Neil is right outside.”

Aaron rolls his eyes. If he actually tried to punch Neil, Andrew would gut him, but the sentiment is nice, or whatever. Weirdly enough, the moment feels almost brotherly.

Aaron clambers to his feet. He needs to figure this shit out, there’s no way he can spend another week like this, much less the rest of the semester. God. Andrew felt like this for _three fucking years._

He bounces on his feet. “Good talk or whatever,” he says, and starts to make his way out the door. Just before he leaves though he pauses. He wants to say— something.

“Andrew—”

Andrew’s face is back to blankness, eyes empty and black. Or— maybe not. Maybe Aaron just isn’t good at finding light either.

“Can we. Do something.”

“Do something.”

“Something that’s not getting so fucking trashed at Eden’s I puke my guts out. I don’t know. Fucking board games.” It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. It’s a waste of Andrew’s time and there’s no reason for him to give a shit.

Andrew doesn’t respond for a long moment, and Aaron almost gives up and just leaves before he says, “Board games are stupid. And you are the one that took the playstation. I’m not going to go all the way to your room to play it.”

But he might if Aaron brings it to him.

Playing video games isn’t going to paste over the cracks in Andrew and Aaron’s relationship, not by a long shot but—

It feels like something. Like an olive branch, a tentative hand reaching out, saying hey, maybe we could try?

Aaron sucks in a breath, “Yeah, uh— yeah. Sounds good.”

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings: alcholism is pretty heavily shown, aaron has a panic attack and flashes back fairly graphically to murdering drake, also contains references to tilda manipulating and gaslighting aaron. references to drug addiction. aaron is prescribed antidepressants and they kick off a manic episode but he doesn't hurt anyone or himself it just makes him kinda horny and mean and very talkative. if you feel like i've missed something please feel free to let me know and i will add it. also i could not find in my google searches exactly how long it takes for antidepressants to induce mania, since it doesn't happen that commonly, so that was a bit of guesswork, don't yell at me it's at least more accurate than the books xD
> 
> anyway i just want aaron and andrew to figure out how to be friends :) oh. and andrew's coffee secret is that he dumped swiss miss hot chocolate powder in it to make it drinkable
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated! feel free to come talk to me on tumblr at [sinistercacophony!](https://sinistercacophony.tumblr.com/)


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